My father awoke blind at age seven, casualty of a viral infection. With his sight restored six weeks later, lessons had been etched in his vision. When his children were born, he added names as rich as chocolate over cream: Joy, the eldest, was his Piggy; Laurene he called Boosie; Duckle Dunn he dubbed me.
Sometimes I thought we were as feeble as Chinese maidens, foot-bound to home, yet when he broke his ankle, he filled his days as my playmate, trimming paper dolls to please me. He didnâ€™t intend to cripple, spent himself in ways my mother couldnâ€™t imagine.
What later disabled his dreams, birthed his despair? Phone calls to beg orders for the oysters he peddled after his business failed? Brothers who betrayed by siphoning customers? How I learned to resent his failures: the overdue rent, unpaid bills. Only grief when he died could stir me to see.